Boston Jacky: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, Taking Care of Business by L. A. Meyer Page A

where have you been?” asks Mistress, her mouth set, her gaze level. “Explain.”
    And I do.
    I tell her of France and Napoleon and the battles I have seen, of the legions of the dead lying on the ground, of Newgate and the South China Sea and the
Lorelei Lee
and Cheng Shih and Chopstick Charlie and the Duke of Clarence and . . .
    In the middle of it I am interrupted and allowed into Mistress’s washroom to rinse the soot from my face and hands while she sends out for tea. When I return, we sit at a small table and the tea is brought.
    . . . and King George III and General Wellesley and Portugal and Francisco Goya and Spanish guerillas and the Romani . . . and . . . and . . .
    And eventually I tell it all, more or less coherently. I sit back in my chair, both physically and spiritually exhausted. It has been a very long day.
    Mistress thinks for a while on what I have said, then says, “Remarkable. Truly remarkable.” She looks me over. “You are not in a fit condition to take dinner with my girls. Plus you seem very tired. However, we are having graduation next week, it also being the end of the term, and I invite you to attend, as I am sure many of your classmates would enjoy seeing you there. Will you come?”
    â€œYes, Mistress, I would like that very much.”
    â€œGood. You are excused, Miss Faber.”
    Â 
    When I climb back aboard the
Nancy B.
, still streaked and sooty, Jemimah doesn’t say a word but merely stokes up the kitchen stove and sets kettles of water on it to heat for my bath. In a short while, I am in it.
    Ahhhhh . . .
    As I lie back in my beautiful little brass-bound copper tub made especially for me and my small size, I reflect that this is my first real bath in a long time—one in a tub, anyway—not since I was a member of Francisco Goya’s studio, and then I had a circle of artists about the tub, drawing me as I lolled in the suds. Of course, after I joined King Zoltan’s caravan of Romani, Medca and Lala and I and the rest of the unmarried girls bathed frequently in the rivers and streams along the banks where the gypsy caravan camped. As for my way over the Big Pond to here aboard the
Margaret Todd
,
there was certainly no lolling about in a tub
.
One does not take full baths on a merchantman crossing the Atlantic, not when one is a girl posing as a male seaman.
    Mmmmm . . .
    I wallow in sinful pleasure for a long time, while Jemimah rustles up some grub for the two of us. Daniel Prescott is the only other one onboard, and he is out on watch, already well fed.
    When I finally get out, leaving the water a lot grayer than I usually do, I dry myself and get into my nightdress, and then Jemimah and I sit at the long mess table and share a companionable meal—cold chicken, hot rice, and biscuits with gravy.
Mmmmm
. . .
    I tell Jemimah of some of my travels and, in particular, my encounter with Brother Bullfrog when I was starving back in Spain, as I think she would enjoy the telling of it . . .
    Hello, Brother Bullfrog. How you been?
I said to the frog. The bullfrog brought his big googly eyes to look upon me.
    Well, hello, Sister Girl. I been jus’ fine. Whatcha got on yo’ mind?
    My mind is set on eatin’ you, Brother Bullfrog—legs, belly, croaker, and all, that’s what.
    Hmmm . . . I might be havin’ a bit of a problem wi’ dat, Sister Jacky. What makes you think you can ’complish dat t’ing?
    It’s ’cause I’m low and cunning and powerful hungry, and I’ll get it done. You’ll see, Brother. You be restin’ in my belly soon.
    Y’know, Sister, I recalls that Brother Fox and Brother Bear tried alla time to eat Brother Rabbit, but it never happened, no. Brother Black Snake give it a try or two, as well, but it ain’t happened yet, no ma’am. Don’t ’spect it’s gonna happen here, neither.
    And he